How We Came To Be
by LunacyIsSubjective
Summary: #f**kyeahSamMoL written in response to quickreaver's prompt. Sam was taken from a motel room by the police when he was four years old, following the suspicious circumstances of his family's disappearance. This is what he became, and why. WARNINGS for abuse, strong language, violence. AU
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **Ok, this is for quickreaver's print raffle, which she posted about on her blog. It was inspired by the print, and I ah, got very carried away...so here it is. #fuckyeahSamMoL

**WARNINGS: **Abuse, strong language, war, violence. If any of these bother you, please do not read. I don't want to upset anyone.

_DISCLAIMER: _Don't own the boys, the show, or the print. What I do own are my original ideas and plotlines, so please don't nick those. As for Sammy, meh, I can share...

THIS IS AN AU, FROM PRE-SEASON 1 ONWARDS. IT WILL PARALLEL WITH THE SHOW AT CERTAIN POINTS, BUT ALWAYS REMAIN AU. (Just in case anyone gets confused.)

Enjoy! (?)

* * *

It really shouldn't have surprised anyone when child protection got involved. John Winchester had disappeared after his wife had died in a fire: an inexplicable fire, a fire that, in spite of the lack of evidence, and apparent explanation of a gas leak, never quite made sense as an accident. Not, at least, to Officer William Cole.

Twenty Eight years later, and some part of Sam still hated that police officer.

They were in Evansville, Indiana. John was away, and Sam didn't remember why. His brother, of whom he had only the most fleeting impression of a smile, and freckles, was not there either. When the police broke the door down, four year old Sam was alone.

He'd been fast asleep on the floor, in a small pile of ratty blankets, next to an empty baby bottle. His little body was lying in the centre of some kind of pentagram, spray painted onto the floor, and a thick circle of salt. Herbs associated in folklore with witchcraft and spirits were scattered around the room, and a brief search revealed files full of articles on missing persons and devils.

However much it pissed him off, Sam couldn't say he'd have acted any differently. The police took him into custody, and after they were unable to locate his father or his brother, he was sent into care. One month later, a carer in the home Sam was sent to received a phone call from a young boy, who insisted on speaking to 'Sammy' before being cut off by an older man. The woman, a Miss Elizabeth Wood, tried to call back, but the phone was switched off. She informed the police, and they tried to trace the cell, but the phone was deactivated, and they never found it.

Six months after Sam got into foster care, he received a letter. It was taped to the windowsill next to his bed, wrapped in a local newspaper with his name printed on it. His father had used plain white paper, the kind you put into printers and buy by the batch. It was written in black biro, in awkward, rounded capitals. It read as follows.

_'Sam,_

_I'm sorry we left you. We both miss you more than I can say. But I think this is best. You're safe. You've escaped this life before you even had to begin it. I think Mary would have wanted that. Dean is too old, he's seen too much. But you have a chance._

_I'm sorry kiddo, it'll be a long time before you understand this. I'm sorry I can't say more. But I'm thinking of you here. Of your mother._

_I'll always love you Sammy. Always._

_Daddy.'_

By this point, five year old Sam had learnt not to trust all of the children at 's House, and even of the men and women who acted as his guardians he was wary. There was some sense of warning, of danger, still lingering fuzzily at the back of his thoughts that made him cautious of everybody around him.

Of course, the workers noticed and threw around words like 'abuse', 'neglect', words inked neatly into the beginning of his file in between suppositions about the 'suspicious circumstances' concerning his mother and absent father. Concern for his brother makes an appearance here, but only briefly, and Dean does not come up again.

So the letter Sam kept to himself, in spite of a desperate wish for someone to read it. Even before he was familiar with its contents, even before every word was seared behind his eyelids, dancing a reel around his mind every night before he went to sleep, Sam knew it was important.

This timeline of events. The paper, the newspaper it was wrapped in. The motel room, the devil worship, the salt - the phone call and his father's message. A blurred memory of a big man in a dark coat, and a brother made of freckles and a smile and sunlight. These were what Sam had of himself as a Winchester. These were his roots. The rest was what he became.

11 months and two weeks after being put into care, Sam was adopted by Gene and Maria Hadley. This was when the abuse started. It was also when he lost his name.

One week after arriving at 3 Orchard Road, cradling a twisted wrist and bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth, Sam was informed in no uncertain terms that his name was Filth, and that he had no family.

The five year old Winchester had cried quietly and nodded. He hadn't needed to be told the second part.

* * *

The abuse was physical and verbal, with a dose of neglect on the side, just to be safe. Sam became another name who slipped through the system. He didn't go to school.

He was trapped. Too little to know what to do, he did his best to do Gene and Maria's bidding, or, as they perversely preferred, 'Mummy and Daddy'.

He did try to escape, at first forming little more in his young mind than a need to get away, and a break for it through the garden. He failed, and earned a scar that ran from his right shoulder to his left hip for the trouble. At seven years old, Sam was malnourished and frightened of everything. He flinched at birdsong. He did not speak. He was a ghost in a window at the new neighbour's house, and nothing more.

When Sam was eight, the police visited the Hadley's, after an anonymous informant had called into the station, worried about screams they had heard coming from the house, and a child they had seen mowing the lawn.

Sam was hurriedly dressed in his best clothes - those that he had arrived in, and not worn since. He was made up by Maria to cover the bruises, sticky creams and powders tickling his skin. And then he was presented, as a shy, quiet, thin but healthy child. Sam did as he was told, and though they had their reservations, the officers accepted his story. The police did not, on Gene and Maria's open display of the child, search the house. If they had, they may have been shocked by the mess of soiled towels and ripped clothes that made Sam's bed, by the beer bottles bursting uncontrollably from the trash, by the tiny store of crisps Sam kept in the corner of his 'nest'. By the blood stains in the dining room he hadn't been able to remove from the carpet. Instead, however, their suspicions were allayed, and Sam was lost.

It was at this point that Gene and Maria realised how close they were to losing their source of income, stress release and free labour. It was at this point, under a pretense of normality, that they let Sam go to school.

His first day at school was an experience Sam would never forget. For one thing, it was terrifying. Huge and busy and loud and bright. People stared at his old clothes, his bony hands, his short, choppy hair (roughly cut with a razor by Maria the day before). People called him _Sam, _and after three years it took him a minute or so each time to realise that yes, that was him. That was his name. He kept himself to himself, and managed largely to slip under the radar of any bullies. The few that did bump into him once or twice found nothing interesting in his simple apathy to their violence, and soon let him be.

And then there was learning. There were books, and lessons, and history and maths and science. At a severe disadvantage, his teachers worried that he had some kind of learning difficulty, or was otherwise mentally incapacitated. It wasn't long before they discovered the very opposite was true. In spite of the years Sam had missed, he caught up in a matter of months, and soon began moving ahead of his classmates.

Though Gene and Maria whined about the time they were losing, about Filth slacking off from his duties at home, they _loved_ the attention they received from his teachers, the praise and admiration for 'their' child. It wasn't long before they began attending school events, and socializing with the other parents. They liked the opportunity to show off, to control their 'son' in public, to manipulate him in the evenings after by pointing out how friendly the other parents were – how they approved of the Hadley's parenting skills, how they liked them.

It made Sam even more quiet than he had been before, and utterly detached from everyone around him. There were one or two offers of friendship from his classmates, but these soon fell against Sam's single minded ignorance of them. Soon, he had exactly what he wanted, no one close enough to hurt him beyond the Hadleys. He was desperately lonely. Time passed. And passed. And passed.

Some mornings, Sam woke, and he didn't feel frightened, or upset, angry or hurt any more. He just felt tired. He did his best to throw himself into his studies, and developed the ability to separate himself from his home life. He simply took it.

One night, when the Hadleys were out and he was twelve, he considered burning the letter from his father. The one material link to his real family, the father who'd abandoned him. The brother, who in spite of the now well faded memory of warmth and light and smiles and _safety_ had left him to this.

Sometimes Sam tried to fight back. He was certainly building up a store of anger he had nothing to do with. Whenever he fought Gene, he inevitably came out worse. At thirteen, he was gangly and awkward in his body, but even without the physical disadvantage, Gene would always have won. The abuse had been going on too long, it was too deeply ingrained into Sam's instincts, his earliest memories. He'd manage one punch in a burst of anger, and then he'd simply freeze in instinctive and utter terror. Gene didn't need to hit him for it to happen either, and the man knew it. He just had to be close, and Sam's whole body would lock.

So he started martial arts. Basketball. Football. He did it all under cover, having learnt long ago how to hide anything that gave him pleasure from Maria, who had once burned all of his books in a jealous rage against his 'happiness'. Sam hadn't known whether to laugh or cry, and instead he'd just knelt numbly in the garden, red fingers sifting through the crumbling ash of his studies.

But Sam stayed alone. Time went on, and he was simply too frightened to be friends with anyone. He became rebellious, surly, rude. He spoke little, and what he did say was almost always a nettle. He got stronger, faster, more graceful within his gangly limbs, and his Jujitsu instructor often commented on his natural talent and stubborn focus. (Sam never replied, never spoke to him, but Harry Kyu was the closest thing he had to a friend.) He kept well away from guns, unsure how he would bear the temptation.

He became more and more obsessed with his studies, and when he wasn't doing sport or working out, he spent all his free time at school doing extra classes, extra assignments, anything he could find.

But he was alone. In spite of his teams and his classes and his teachers, all of whom gave him chance on chance, offered a forest of olive branches and a flock of metaphorical doves, he kept away. He hid the bruises Gene largely left where they wouldn't be seen. He shoplifted food and managed to stay at a weight that was just below healthy. By fourteen, he was beyond exhausted.

There was simply nothing left of his mind beyond work and exercise and home and pain. Sam stopped speaking altogether. He barely made it into school. Gene and Maria, sensing the change, got more and more brutal, especially when Sam's teachers called them to find out why he'd been missing class. Sam became a walking coma, taking every beating and not batting an eyelash. He stopped sleeping. (He never burned the letter).

It shouldn't have been a surprise when Sam tried to commit suicide. But then, when a fourteen year old throws himself off a building, it's difficult to stay apathetic.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam woke in the hospital, and didn't feel anything. He'd expected to feel disappointed, or relieved, or frightened. _Something_. But he simply couldn't. The fog which had wrapped itself thickly around his heart and mind was still there. He took in the oxygen mask, the bandages, the casts. He accepted the pain throbbing through his skull and up his spine.

Eventually a doctor arrived. She explained what had happened (as if he'd forget jumping off a building). She talked about how his survival was a miracle. About how, in spite of literally dozens of broken bones, he would heal. There was no permanent damage. She smiled and said it was as if angels were watching over him. She said he shouldn't forget that.

Sam took a deep breath through the oxygen mask, breathing in the pain of his ribs, and pulled it off. The doctor stared at him, still smiling. Sam forced himself to smile back.

"What….kind of angel…would let me live my life, and only step in to…screw up…my fucking salvation." The woman's smile fell, and she frowned, though somehow she seemed unoffended. Instead she just looked pitying. Sam glared.

"If I met that angel…I'd fucking kill it."

Sam had two visitors, both police officers. They came to question him about Gene and Maria. Sam told them the truth. And in spite of the broken bones and bandages masking most of it, there were enough scars to back up his story. Those, and the fact his room, though better than the mess it had been when he was younger, still consisted of a bed made of towels and sheets and a hidden supply of food.

Maria and Gene were arrested. Sam was unable to attend the trial. Two months later, he was back in care. One week after that, his Jujitsu Instructor, Harry Kyu, came to visit.

* * *

"Why are you here?" Sam knew he was being blunt. He'd just been left alone with the man, who had apparently come for him, but he'd learnt not to trust older men. And after years of lying, he wasn't going to dance around the point.

Harry Kyu was neither tall nor short, hovering on average at 5"10. He was muscular and tanned, and his Chinese heritage was clear. He had short black hair, dark, almond shaped eyes and thin lips. He raised his chin and leaned against the wall opposite Sam, keeping his arms at his sides. "I guess I know why you worked so hard at Jujitsu now."

Sam rolled his eyes, wishing away the hot flush that burned his cheeks.

"Congratulations Einstein. You're a genius."

It had been almost three months since the Hadley case had made it to national television, and he still hated the fact people knew about the abuse. Or thought they knew. It made him feel ashamed, for being so weak, for being the kind of person who invited that kind of treatment. And maybe some small, smarter part of him knew that wasn't fair, that no one was judging him, but he couldn't help the embarrassment. The anger he chose, frustrated by how many people assumed they could form some kind of kinship with him, assumed they knew what he had lived through.

Harry grinned. "Thanks for the compliment."

Sam scowled. "It wasn't –"

"I know." Harry kept smiling, and Sam's nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. "I figure you need a place to stay."

"Not interested." Sam's voice was low, and firm. His hands were rigidly unclenched at his sides.

"You haven't even seen the place." Harry stepped away from the wall and Sam stepped back. The instructor raised his hands palms out and watched Sam with an entirely neutral expression.

"Don't care." And then Sam took a breath, and in a short burst of words spat. "Why are you here anyway? I never spoke to you. You didn't know I existed. So what, now I'm some charity case? Get you brownie points in the neighbourhood? Or is it just the money? School activities can't pay much. I'm _not_ being _used,_ so you can go screw yourself."

Sam blinked, his whole body relaxing marginally. Harry had lowered his hands during the fourteen year old's rage, and now he put them in his pockets, nodding.

"Anatomically speaking, that-"

"_Fuck. Off." _

Harry nodded, and with a very faint smile, stepped back. "Alright. Offer stays open though."

* * *

Every week for four months, Harry came back to make the same offer. Honestly, Sam was frightened, wary as to his motives, though he hid it as best he could, and better than he thought. For three of those months, Harry Kyu was at a loss.

Even he wasn't sure why he wanted to help Sam so badly. But there was something about the kid; something so wild and broken but still _brilliant._ It just seemed worth saving. Twice he was confronted by the social workers at Sam's care home as to his motives, and once he was cleared by a psychologist, just to be safe. The system had failed the boy once, they weren't going to let it happen again.

Three months in, Harry bought Sam a laptop. In spite of the kid's accusations to the contrary, Harry had a fair wage, teaching a large variety of private students and adult classes in addition to the three regular weekly ones he taught at the local schools. He was a good instructor, and it had served him well.

At first, he hadn't known what to get, and holding the heavy grey machine under his arm, he couldn't help worrying faintly that Sam would just smash it. But after speaking to the teachers and students at Sam's school, he'd learnt that Sam had a voracious appetite for information. How much of that was escaping his home situation, Harry could only guess, but his talents were natural, and Harry would be damned if he'd let the kid put them to waste.

Sam had only said one word to him that day, and it was "thank you". He said it in a small voice that reminded Harry with a shock that he was only fourteen. Then he had turned away, and Harry respected him enough to leave without waiting to hear him cry.

One week later, Sam presented the letter. The letter he had shown no one else, the one sent to him by his father. Harry couldn't decide how to feel about the man. Was he some crazed psychopath? Part of the mob? Did he simply not care enough for Sam to keep him, to even claim him? Or was the affection claimed in the letter genuine?

The week after that, Sam told Harry that he was considering his offer. At the end of the fourth month, he moved in.

* * *

Sam's life with Harry began bumpily, as anyone may have expected. But the man was patient, and forgiving, and soon Sam began to warm to him. He transferred to a new school, and poured back into his studies. He made his first friend, a beautiful girl with blonde hair and a mole on her forehead, whose name was Jess.

After a year, Sam realised he had come to think of Harry as family. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had happened, but it did. He went to counseling, and sometimes Harry came, and sometimes Harry didn't. He kept up Jujitsu and picked up Taekwondo and Karate. He started shooting, and discovered that he was a born marksman. He made more friends, and got onto the basketball team.

The guys who knew him began to joke that he was a walking talking killing machine. Sam laughed and flushed, and it was funny because as he healed the truth of his nature – the instinct for kindness, his deep sense of loyalty and compassion, became almost painfully apparent. He was awkward around girls, shy at parties, and in spite of his manifold sporting abilities, still managed to trip over his own feet.

Sam was finally normal, and safe, and loved. Everything was just right.

With Harry's permission, he got his first tattoo at sixteen, gothic writing on his hip, which read simply: _'non timebo mala'_. In english, it meant, 'I will fear no evil.' And during the painful session, Sam held Harry's hand and kept Gene Hadley's face fixed in his mind. Whenever he looked at the tattoo after that, it reminded him that he could rise above. If he could survive Gene, he could survive anyone.

He didn't have to be afraid any more.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was 17 years old when he met Gordon Walker.

A girl had moved into his street. Her name was Nina. She was wild, wore leather and crop tops and dyed her hair black with violent purple streaks. Sam had tried to offer friendship, but she wasn't interested. He'd shrugged it off, though he couldn't help worrying about her a little, about the beer bottles strewn across her lawn, and the strange men and women that milled in and out of her house at strange hours of the night.

Sam had been walking home from a Jujitsu class, one that he'd been teaching himself at Harry's newly purchased Dojo. He'd heard Maria scream, and bolted to the fence that led to her garden, where her cry had come from. He vaulted the wood in time to see a man sawing her head off with a hatchet.

Fear dumped itself into Sam's bloodstream, but he calmly pushed it aside, getting into a fighting stance as he assessed the threat. The man was tall and well muscled, clearly in good physical shape. He had not apparently noticed Sam yet, but then he was too preoccupied severing the last bit of grizzle attaching Nina's head to her body. He had a handgun in his belt, and a hunting knife hanging from it too. Sam guessed he had more hidden inside the baggy, practical trousers he was wearing.

So, priorities – incapacitate this psychopath, and tie him up. Sam bit his lip, creeping forwards on the balls of his feet. Why did he always get the easiest jobs?

Before he made it a metre, the man spun to face him. His eyes were so dark in the twilight that they looked black. Blood was smudged on his face and neck, dribbling over his clothes. In a blur of motion, he attacked, and it took of all Sam's training to defend himself. But defend himself he did.

The man didn't even try to talk, instead he seemed to be aiming for Sam's mouth. Momentarily confused, Sam decided to use the guy's preoccupation as an opportunity, and ducked another hand reaching to pry open his mouth, coming under his guard and delivering a good old fashioned upper cut. Psycho guy's head snapped back, and Sam wasted no time knocking him unconscious. The guy went limp, and for a second Sam caught his breath, feeling the dreaded fog of so many years ago creeping back over his mind as he took in the scene. Nina's headless body was lying awkwardly on the ground, not far from her head. Blood was spattered over the fence and leaking into the grass.

The psychopath groaned, and Sam remembered his priorities. Eliminate the threat. Tie him up. Remove weapons. He didn't know why he wasn't surprised to find rope looped up in the guy's jacket, but he wasn't. Instead, he did his best to tie up the guy and then removed all the weapons that he could find, laying them far way and keeping the shotgun in his hand, watching his opponent. Then he called the police.

"You're calling the damn police? Think they're gonna help bloodsucking freaks like you. That's new."

Sam jumped when the guy started to talk, and then shook his head. "You're crazy, you know that?"

The man frowned. "I'm crazy? You're a vampire, calling the police for help against a hunter. Since when do parasites go domestic?"

Shaking his head, Sam took a moment to steady his hand. "There's no such thing as vampires man. You're not Van Helsing. You're just a psychopath."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Sam could hear the sirens of the police now, faintly. They were a few blocks away yet. He very deliberately kept his gaze away from Nina's corpse.

"You're a civilian. You're just a kid." The words were uttered quietly, and Sam blinked.

"And the million dollar lottery goes to the guy with the vampire problem. Who else was I going to be?"

Steadily, the man looked at him, dark eyes unflinching. Sam met his gaze, raising his eyebrows. This guy was nine kinds of crazy and then some.

"I thought…" The sirens were getting louder now, and the psycho swore under his breath. He went to get up, and Sam cocked the safety.

"I might be a kid, but I'm going to warn you once. I am willing and able to use this. Don't. _Move._"

"My name is Gordon Walker. I am a hunter. I hunt monsters."

Tilting his head to the side, Sam raised both eyebrows, drawing his words out with deep sarcasm. "Yeeeaah, really helping the non crazy case there man."

With a screech of tires and the uniform thud of heavy boots, the police arrived outside the house. Gordon glared at Sam, getting with difficult to his feet in spite of his bound ankles. Sam raised the gun, swallowing nervously.

"_Look_ at her _teeth._ Look at my shoulder!" And with the command, Gordon tilted his head to the side, revealing his torn shirt and the shredded flesh underneath. Outside there was a crash as the police broke the door down.

Keeping his gun trained steadily on Gordon, Sam stepped past him at a distance, and moved to Nina's severed head. He didn't have to be too close before he saw them. A whole extra set of curved, pointed teeth, fixed by rigor mortis protruding from her mouth in a snarl. "What the…"

And then the police were there, cuffing Gordon and giving Sam strange looks and a shock blanket. He was questioned afterwards and let go. Harry couldn't decide whether to be furious or proud, and in the end he just enveloped Sam in a bear hug and pretended not to be crying in relief. Sam made the local paper.

Jess slapped him for being so stupid, and then kissed him for the first time: fierce and desperate. Sam kissed her back, and when he remembered that his brain could do, like, thoughts and stuff, he flushed bright red and asked her out on a date. Jubilant, Jess accepted.

Gordon escaped from his holding cell, but he left Sam a note. He told the police he could make neither head nor tails of it. He lied.

_"Monsters are real, kid. Watch the shadows and watch your back._

_Consider becoming a hunter. You'd be good at it."_

This was Sam's second tattoo. A simple pentagram on his left forearm, for protection, and as a reminder. If what Gordon said was true, he'd been blind for seventeen years. Sam was not going to be caught off guard again, by anyone or anything. So he wouldn't forget.

(And sometimes, in the morning, when he was getting dressed, he wondered whether the pentagram he'd been found asleep in when he was four, the one spray painted onto the motel room floor, looked anything like the one he now wore. He wondered if John Winchester was really as mad as the police, and even he, had begun to believe.)


	4. Chapter 4

Eventually Sam left home for college, and Jess went with him. She'd always been as smart as he was, smarter, from his point of view. They rented a house together, and Harry came up to visit every few months. On Sam's 21st birthday, his adopted father hustled up a contingent of his college friends, including the whole basketball team.

Laughing at Sam's utter shock, and mild disapproval, Jess explained that she'd wanted him to have a sense of _real_ college life. Sticking her tongue out, she'd teased, "what, you think we're here to learn?" Sam had laughed in spite of himself, and she had kissed him and told him gently that if it were too much she'd aid and abet him in escaping.

At that point, the basketball team had burst out of the living room and into the kitchen. Respectfully giving Jess her space (the woman was infamous for her deadly skill with a spatula), they grabbed Sam to drag him into the room with his guests. Flushing deeply, Sam allowed himself to be grabbed, laughing and trying very hard to contain his instinct to escape. These were his friends, this was safe.

Harry was standing in the middle of the room, and smiling. Once Sam was there, he unveiled a frame that reached the height of his hip. Sam, who was trying to subtly take deep breaths and count to ten in the suddenly very crowded room, looked up and caught his breath.

The frame was a montage. There were pictures of he and Jess, the basketball team, some friends from Jujitsu, pictures of his students, he and Harry….There were snaps of him in matches, as a Mathlete, at his prom, high school graduation…Everything good about his life, all the luck and love that had fallen into his lap at last, and more importantly: everything good about himself, was rolled into this picture. Messages in different colours, some childish scrawls from the kids, and other messier ones and doodles from his friends, covered the entire piece. In the center, big letters read in a space all of their own:

"Sam Kyu – Bit of a legend, really."

It was one hell of a party.

* * *

One year later, Sam told Harry that he was going to propose. Harry was delighted. Sure, Sam was a little young, but he'd known Jess for years, and anyone who'd spent any time around the couple simply knew no one would ever be better for them than each other. It was corny, and it was difficult to believe, but it was true. Sam and Jess glowed in one another's company, and together they moved from strength to strength.

At 22 years of age, it looked like Sam had finally healed from his past.

He still had nightmares, but then he'd never expected them to leave. They were no longer about Gene and Maria, instead transferring to horrific visions of Jess burning up on the ceiling, but Sam figured it was just some freaky psychological illustration of his fear of losing her. Still. He didn't tell her, or Harry. The long lingering shame of his experiences meant sometimes it took him weeks to confide in anyone. He would, because both Harry and Jess had been there more times than he could count. He just wasn't quite ready yet.

Harry drove up to Stanford, on the pretext of a few days away from college for the kid to clear his head in time for his big interview. In actuality, Sam intended to propose to Jess the following Saturday, and they were looking for rings. Harry, whose martial arts school had really taken off, absorbing Sam's Karate and Taekwondo instructors, along with several of his own students, had even offered a loan, so Sam could get her something really special.

Jess, ever supportive, and understanding only that Sam needed to spend time with the man both of them firmly considered to be his father, kissed Sam and slapped him on the rear. "I was getting tired of you anyway." Then, at the very subtle expression of disappointment on his face, she got up on tiptoes and kissed his nose. "Having said that, hurry back anyway, ok? The dark side has cookies…"

Sam hugged her, burying his face in her hair and kissing her forehead, her cheeks, and finally her lips.

Then he walked out the door.

On Sunday evening, Sam got home. The cookies she'd promised sat sweetly on their kitchen table, and in Sam's pocket, carefully wrapped in newspaper in case she saw it, was the box containing what would have been Jess' engagement ring.

But Jess was dead. And on fire. And on the ceiling.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam dropped out of Stanford, and then off the radar, in spite of Harry's efforts to take care of him. Instead, he threw himself into what Gordon Walker had hinted at on their brief encounter five years ago. Hunting.

After a while, and by a while, he meant eight months, three angry spirits, and one unexplained disappearance in which he'd been implicated, he found Hunters. More specifically, he found one hunter in particular.

That man was Bobby Singer.

Bobby was wary of this new kid on the block, calling himself Kyu, but then he was wary of everybody. And after a few hours of brief, witty remarks, sarcasm, and beneath it a kindness that still shone through, not yet obscured by the darkness of their line of business, Bobby liked him. Though the boy was a bit clueless at to everything hunting related, in spite of his extensive internet research, he'd managed some decent exorcisms. He'd saved people.

And in the end, wasn't that why they wanted to be doing this? Wasn't that what they wanted to aim for?

Sam didn't tell Bobby about Jess.

* * *

When Sam began having visions in earnest, he didn't know what to do. He knew what he wanted to do. He _wanted_ to go back to Harry, to safety and Stanford and warmth and healing. But after Jess. After everything he'd seen in the year he'd spent fumbling his way into hunting, he realised that he'd simply gone too far down the rabbit hole. And the more deaths he predicted, the more frightened he got.

So Sam did what he'd learnt to always do with fear. He rubbed at his hip, a nervous habit he'd developed of brushing his tattoo for reassurance. And then he compartmentalized. He researched. He built boxes. He found patterns. The connection between his mother's death and Jess' became steadily more clear. As, more forebodingly, did that between himself, the other children, and the demon.

He found his way to Ellen's roadhouse. He got an anti possession tattoo. (More unnerved than he could say by his more and more apparent connection to a demon.) Like most hunters, he kept himself to himself. But after hearing that Ash was some kind of genius, Sam hesitantly shared his research. The guy's response was, simply, "holy shit."

The next day, Sam left the roadhouse with Ash's number, and Ellen began making inquiries, as to whether anyone had heard from Dean or John Winchester.

A few weeks later, she found Dean. She was too late.

Sam finally met Azazel. The demon seemed almost upset about what had happened to him. Stalking the campfire in a dream, the monster bewailed his own loss while Sam watched.

"You were supposed to be my leader! An expert hunter, instinctively knowing your enemies. But what are you now? Just another damn civilian. I almost prefer the soldier."

Sam shrugged. "I feel for you man. I mean, I went through hell before I understood the concept. You murdered the two most important women in my life. You poisoned me before I could speak. I mean really, I can sympathise."

Azazel nodded, his toad like eyes flickering over Sam as his right hand clenched and unclenched in a quick, impulsive movement. "Sarcasm. That's cute. So I take it you won't be playing my little game then?"

"Take a wild guess."

Shrugging, Azazel let out a deep breath that was almost a hiss. "Well, I guess I could live with the soldier."

In a twist of light, he was gone. Sam woke up. And promptly knocked Jake unconscious, before preceding to drag his sorry, deceitful, demon loving, damn _heavy_ ass out of there.

As he walked, Sam muttered the rites of exorcism, rites he had deliberately learnt by heart, again and again. Demonic shadows crept out of the surrounding area. Sam stared ahead, and wished he were as oblivious to the strange mirages and tricks of the light as he had been once.

Then a gorgeous '67 Chevy Impala screamed into the clearing, and a stranger leapt out, guns blazing. Sam promptly dragged Jake into the back seat, tied him up with a strip of his shirt, and banged him on the head one more time to make sure he was unconscious.

He himself sat behind the driver's seat, and pressed a gun against Jake's temple, just in case he came up with any funny business. His white knight jumped back into the car and pressed his foot down on the accelerator, getting them as far away from there as he could. Once Cold Oak was firmly in their rearview mirror, the guy turned and splashed water on him from a steel hip flask.

Sam spluttered, but waited for the hunter to see he wasn't a demon before he spoke. "So who the hell are you?"

The guy turned back to the road, fingers clenching tightly around the wheel as he put his foot down on the accelerator. "Name's Dean. Bobby sent me. What's up with sleeping beauty?" He said it with a dismissive jerk at Jake's prone form, and Sam pursed his lips.

"Demon got to him. Apparently, demons always lie, unless they ask you _really nicely _to kill everyone around you."

Dean gave a short bark of laughter, and the corner of Sam's mouth lifted in response. "So what, he a civilian or a hunter? What's with the combats?"

"Civilian." Sam paused. "He…he was in Afghanistan." Dean let out a low whistle.

"Yellow-eyes really pulled out the stops for you freaks then." Sam frowned, and Dean caught it in the rearview mirror. "Uh, no offense. Bobby clued me in. So, visions huh? That's," He tilted his head to the side, his hands flexing and then clenching on the steering wheel again. "That's fantastic."

Watching him carefully from the back seat, and keeping Jake in the corner of his eye, Sam kept his expression neutral, clamping down the shiver of fear rising from his gut. He didn't trust easily.

"So where are we going?"

"Oh right, sorry." Dean laughed. "Here's me taking you into the middle of nowhere, s'like Final Destination right? Who knows where this journey will end." He grinned into the mirror above him, but the smile fell from his face when he caught Sam's glare, and he cleared his throat. "Heading back to Bobby's, think there might be more to this whole army of demonic psychics than we first thought. You know, cos that isn't reason enough to be going code red."

Sam wondered absently exactly how awkward it would be to break this guy's nose from the back seat, just for the hell of it. He could probably manage some kind of kick…At that moment, Jake stirred, and without hesitation, he knocked him back out with the butt of his gun.

Dean winced. "That's gonna _hurt_ when he wakes up. I know from experience, see, there was this one time, I was in Illinois, and Jesus, this chick, she-"

Shutting his eyes, Sam considered the fact that in the past 36 hours he'd been whisked away from one hunt, which hadn't been going well and from which he still bore the bruises, into a ghost town where no matter what he did, people kept getting killed. And then it turned out they were killing each other. And then they tried to kill him. Plus the bonus heart to heart with the demon who murdered his mother and the love of his life, and wanted him to lead the forces of hell, quite literally. He really didn't have the patience to hear out a stranger on his adventures with a prostitute named Brienne.

"Just drive." Dean shut up, and the rest of the way passed in silence.


	6. Chapter 6

The night they got to Bobby's, they tied up Jake, and Dean went straight to the grizzled hunter to discuss some sort of supernatural weapon, created by Samuel Colt. Sam begged off for a nap, settling onto Bobby's ratty sofa and trying to contain the instinct to just get up and run – because he did _not_ do strangers, and sleeping with strangers, and it just wasn't really ok, and he didn't want to be involved in any of this.

So when Yellow-Eyes sauntered up to him with a shit-eating grin in dreamland, the first thing Sam tried was a roundhouse kick.

The demon just chuckled, easily flickering in and out of the fabric of Sam's dream, appearing behind him about 5 feet too close for comfort. Sam's nostrils flared, drinking in the smell of sweat and sulfur, and he whirled around to face the creature. But then it was gone again, on the other side of an imaginary campfire.

Calmly, it sat down. "You know Sam, I'd like you to remember that I played fair. I did _tell_ you the rules."

Scowling, Sam shook his head. "Would you cut the bullshit? Just once? I mean, I know it's hard for you and all."

Yellow-Eyes gave a smile that was all teeth and shrugged. "Just thought you might like to know what happened to that dear old Dad of yours. What are they calling it? Closure. I hear it's all the rage these days." He tilted his head to the side, giving Sam a slow smile behind the campfire, his toad like eyes glittering in the flames.

It took him a moment, took Sam a few seconds to file through the three fathers he had, wondering which Yellow-Eyes would go after. And then it hit him, like a knife to the gut, and he lost it. Shutting his eyes, he tried to call all of his rage to the surface, digging in the back of his mind to where the pain came when he had the visions he'd never wanted. The fabric of the dream shuddered, and Yellow-Eyes clapped his hands in delight.

"Very good Sam." A whirlwind picked up as Sam deliberately ravaged his own dreamscape, hurling the demon away from him and clawing his way back to consciousness. But not before the creature whispered one last message in his ear, so close its chapped lips brushed against his skin.

"Hold onto that anger for me, won't you?"

* * *

"What do you mean, you're leaving?" Dean was furious; his face white with rage, and Bobby himself was going red. Ellen was there too, hands on her hips. All three formed a blockade of disapproval, with Sam on the other side of the room.

"He's going after Harry." Sam didn't understand why this was so difficult for them to understand, instead he glared at each of them, wondering how hard it would be to take them out and get to the door. He reckoned he could do it.

Ellen's face fell, her gaze softening. "Sam, if Yellow-Eyes has told you that, likelihood is that your guardian is already dead."

The thump and crack of Sam's fist colliding with the wall made her jump, and Bobby folded his arms. "If you damaged that, you're fixing it." Sam took a deep breath.

"He might not be dead. The demon could be bluffing. Either way, I need to be there, as in, yesterday. Now let. Me. _Go._"

"Don't you get it kid?" Dean was shouting now, and Sam rose to the challenge eagerly, stepping closer so they were toe to toe. In spite of the older man's disadvantage in height, he still managed to seem pretty huge. "This is about more than you and your family. These are the damn gates of _hell._ Hell? You know what that is?" Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean cut him off. "It is worse than you could possibly imagine."

In one swift motion, Sam cut the guy's feet out from under him with a sweeping kick, delivering an elbow to the chin and a quick kick to the gut, and jumping through the gap that was left. Both Bobby and Ellen stared, and Dean struggled to get to his feet.

"I'm sorry." Sam shouted as he ran. "But he's family."

* * *

He stole Dean's car, and figured he may well got shot for it one day. Then he drove through the night, shivering in something. Fear? Anticipation? Dread? He didn't know. He just kept driving.

He was too late. When Sam got there, Harry's house - _His _house. The place that had come to be his home, had been burnt to the ground. He hadn't spoken to Harry in almost two years.

Staring at the ash that had been his shelter, the ark that had carried him out of the darkness of his childhood, Sam had never felt more worthless. He stared at the Impala with something very close to nausea. And then he walked away.

One week later, he joined the army. 6 months after that, he was at war.


	7. Chapter 7

Demons didn't only exist in America. They'd gotten everywhere, and if there was one thing Sam learned during his time in Afghanistan, it was that they loved a battlefield. And now they had a whole country.

It was here he met a demon called Ruby, possessing a local woman. They were trapped together in a building under fire from the Taliban. Sam, two of his fellow soldiers, and one woman with black eyes, who claimed disease and talked to Sam about demon blood.

Two months later, Sam was strong. Stronger than he'd ever been in his life. He wasn't just protecting his squad, or even his regiment, he was defending the whole damn camp from an army of monsters they didn't know existed. For the first time since Harry's murder, he felt like hunting was helping people.

He had a friend. No matter how hard he tried to push them away, he'd always end up with someone somewhere. This someone was called Kyle. He was from South Dakota. Blonde hair, freckles, a year older than Sam. He'd not have minded if Kyle had been the long lost brother he'd nearly forgotten.

Kyle was the only one he allowed tentatively, slowly, irritably, closer. Like a wounded bear, Sam had almost entirely reverted to the surly, taciturn state he'd held while with the Hadleys. The demon blood, and his increasing dependence (and fear of it) didn't help.

Perversely, however, Sam found comfort in the demons. In his fear of himself. He saw war blurring the lines around him. Saw it twisting the men, and somehow, he felt he was riding through it. He knew he was a monster. And he knew how to use it to his advantage.

And then Kyle found out.

* * *

Sam dispatched the demon with one swift strike of his army issue knife. He could have drawn the creature out, but honestly, the body it inhabited was beyond repair anyway. (And he needed blood.)

He'd intended to simply take the 'winnings' dripping thick and crimson from his knife. But instead he found himself falling to his knees, head pounding like a bad case of sunstroke. His vision began to flicker, focusing and refocusing on the wide smiling gash of the woman's throat.

And then he was drinking and it was power and oblivion and thrill (and no more Jess and no more Harry and no more war).

A blow to the head brought him out of his reverie in a hurry, mouth sticky with warm blood. Kyle was standing over him, staring in horror between his living body and the mutilated corpse over which he'd been crouched with flat black eyes.

Sam didn't feel the terror he should have for his friend, or even the shame for himself. Instead he raised his hand, drawing the demon out as if he was taking candy from a baby. Weakly, Kyle collapsed into the sand next to him, choking. Sam went to rub the blood from his mouth, but Kyle caught the movement in the corner of his eye and shook his head, breathing heavily.

"Don't bother Sam." He took a few moments longer to catch his breath. Sam stayed where he was, on the ground, in the dust. Eventually Kyle looked up. He looked like he'd aged thirty years. "Since when did you become a monster?"

Stiffening, Sam raised his chin. Just because he'd come to peace with what he was (and he had, he had, he had) didn't mean he wanted others to know. (Especially not Kyle. Not the man he'd tried so hard to remain distant from.)

"You don't understand." He poured all the contempt he could into the words, hiding behind his bite like a beaten dog. "There are monsters out there. Real monsters: ghosts, demons, zombies, vampires, the whole damn lot. I'm _protecting_ this entire battalion."

"By drinking blood?" Kyle shook his head. "Don't you see how that's wrong?"

Sam paused, running his hands through his hair before shaking his head. "Look, it's not like that. These things are demons. Their blood is powerful, and it's making me powerful. It's like a supernatural AK47."

Kyle stood, meeting Sam's eyes steadily until the latter had to break his gaze. "So you want to feel powerful, huh?"

"No! I…I just want to do good. Save people. I mean, do you honestly think this war is helping anything? Anyone? At least I'm doing _something._" Sam's voice rose as he spoke and glared out at the arid landscape around him, not for the first time feeling horrifically, achingly lost. What was he doing here?

"So that's how it is? You think you're better than the rest of us?" Kyle's eyes were narrowed, though he kept his voice calm. Still, Sam had spent enough time around angry men to recognise the signs.

"Come on man, you know that's not what I mean." But Kyle was having none of it. Instead he shook his head, tanned face red in the mid afternoon sun.

"No Sam. This." He gestured to the dead woman. "This is steroids. And this." With a wide, sweeping gesture he encompassed the landscape around them, the village on the horizon, the dusty road at their backs. "This is a _crusade_. And you know something? You're wrong." Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Kyle cut him off. "No! Don't you get it? We're at war! We are soldiers, and we are part of a machine. We are pawns, all of us, even you Sammy. You _cannot_ see the bigger picture, because you're in the fucking center. You think you have the time to go running around playing vigilante? What about your duty? What about the men relying on you to keep them safe from all the terrors in the real world? And besides that….Sam, this is _demon_ blood. I mean, even with this supernatural bullshit, that didn't ring any alarm bells? Not one?" Kyle was shouting now, somewhere between anger and horror, and his voice echoed across the parched landscape, ringing over gravel and sand.

Sam shut his eyes, trying to block it out, to contain the waves of irritation (and fear, because what if Kyle was right?) rising inside him. Trying to keep his mouth shut. (And didn't that bring back some pleasant memories…)

He was forced back into the present by Kyle's hands on his lapels, an expression somewhere between fury and grief fixed onto his face. "Sam, you are _not_ better than us. No matter how much you drug yourself up, or lie to yourself, no matter how good your intentions. This is going further than you were ever meant to go. It's pride, plain and simple. And you know something? I can name at least two people who that didn't work out for. One of them had wings made of wax. The other just had wings. Both of them burned."


	8. Chapter 8

The next day, they were on a typical patrol, driving down a dusty track. Sam had taken lead. He was trying desperately to blink away a sleepless night, and the hunger rising in him all too soon. He wasn't stupid; he'd noticed the way his tolerance had risen sharply. How much blood he needed now to keep his appetite at bay, all statements of good will aside. He clenched his fingers round the wheel, trying not to think about anything.

(Like the fact he hadn't seen Ruby in a month. Like the fact Kyle wasn't talking to him. Like the fact he was once again stood on the edge of a precipice, and below him the darkness was calling: alone, alone, alone. Like blood.)

So he didn't hear the sudden warning on the radio, or from the man (Billy Greenfield) sitting next to him. And he didn't catch the deadly silver glint of a landmine on the road ahead. All he'd remember for months was blinding white light. And then darkness.

* * *

Kyle was in the back of the truck Sam was driving. All 7 passengers were killed. He was the only survivor.

After medical tests revealed no drugs, but increased blood pressure, adrenalin and dramatic withdrawal symptoms: trembling, hallucinations and seizures –Sam was dishonorably discharged under an accusation of misconduct, and suspicion of drug abuse. The blast had damaged his eyesight, but nothing else.

Back in the US, he checked into a motel with a stolen credit card, and re-wrote his identity, again. Every morning he looked at himself in the mirror. Looked at the glasses, and saw in the light dancing over their surface the fire, the twisted metal. Kyle's mouth open, screaming.

He didn't sleep.

After two weeks, Sam checked himself into a rehabilitation facility. Ruby didn't get in touch, and he could only assume she was dead. War did that.

Demons broke into his facility after a month. Sam killed them with good old fashioned salt, holy water and Latin rites. He didn't drink their blood.

One month after that, he went to a tattoo artist and started smoking. He had a peacock feather painted over his arm, to remind himself of the last things Kyle had said to him. Because the more he thought about it in retrospect, the more he realised that even after his discovery, Kyle had not wanted rid of him. Had not thought he was hopeless, or twisted. He'd been trying to save him.

And there was no damn way Sam was wasting that now.

(A month after that, and he managed the courage to send money to the families of the men and women he'd killed.)

* * *

When the kid Bobby Singer had known as Sam Kyu turned up on his doorstep, the first thing the grizzled hunter did was punch him.

"You left us to manage the damn gates of hell! Then you disappeared off the map – no message, no clues, _nothing._ You could have been dead! And you think you have a right to come back here?!"

Sam grinned around his split lip, barely feeling the pain, and took off his now cracked glasses. "Gee Bobby, I never knew you cared."

Bobby raised his fist again, and Sam felt a flinch run through his entire body. Old habits died hard. After a tense moment, the elder man shook his head, lowering his hand and holding it out. Surprised, Sam took it, and Bobby grasped it warmly.

"Good to see you kid. So what's up?"

Sam shrugged, staring around the old place. It was one of the only buildings on the planet still intact that he could even consider familiar. For that fact alone, he knew he loved it a little.

"Just wondered if you had a case?"


	9. Chapter 9

Six months later, Sam was chasing down a slightly unusual haunting. Various reports said it was either the youngest daughter, or the mother of three who'd been brutally murdered there five hundred years earlier.

Sam had seen the pictures, and he figured both sides were getting confused. The middle daughter was allegedly the focus of the attack, a girl who had reportedly been abused by the father even before he went psychopathic. She was small enough to be mistaken for her younger sister, and bore a striking resemblance to her mother. It was unusual, but it made sense.

Sam had just finished burning her bones when the mother came up behind him and plunged her fingers into, and through, his back. He had a second to think _pain_ and then there was a loud crack, ringing through the cemetery he'd thought was empty.

The spirit disappeared in a scatter of rock salt, and Sam stumbled forwards, gasping as blood trickled over his skin.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and Sam jumped, shaking his head and trying to stay focused. "You ok?"

The man beside him had short sandy blonde hair, a strong chin, freckles and a plaid shirt. Sam stared, and after a second or two the man stared back, before straightening and backing off.

"Sam Kyu right?"

Sam nodded at the man who'd saved him at Cold Oak. Dean shook his head and swore, before laughing. Then he punched him. Sam wondered if he was delirious.

"Shoulda let her have you. I mean: it's what you did to us, right? _Right?! _And _you stole my car._"

With a wince, Sam straightened, raising his hands in a placating manner. "Look, I get it, you're angry-"

"Damn right I'm angry!" Dean would have said more, and possibly thrown another punch, but at that moment Sam cocked his gun and shot the spirit aiming for his throat.

Whirling, Dean swore again, before turning back to Sam. In return, Sam offered a weak smile. "Can we exorcise the spirit first?"

Dean dug the grave, while Sam tried to stem the bleeding below his left shoulder. He was pretty sure the ghost had missed anything really important, but he was a soldier and a hunter, and he wasn't about to die of blood loss in a cemetery.

Just to be safe, they burnt the youngest daughter's bones too. With that wrapped up, they headed back to their motel. Dean had offered to drive Sam back, since he wasn't in much of a condition to be using his arm. The older man's face had fallen when Sam had given the name of his place.

"Well isn't that serendipitous."

Sam was pretty sure he meant something else entirely. So he couldn't help being a little surprised when Dean came back to his room with him, and offered to stitch his wounds, muttering something about not having an idiot bleed out on his watch. Sam had warily accepted, knowing Dean would do a better job than he would, though he couldn't help being suspicious. Wasn't this the guy who'd been yelling at him only an hour or two ago? The same one he'd left in the middle of the night to face the hordes of hell?

Sam could feel guilt rising in him, and was almost glad of the fact Dean refused to do much to help with the pain, going straight in for the stitches. Still, it was a good job, and Sam could at least rest in the knowledge there'd not be an infection in the morning.

That, and then the fact that if he let his eyes shut once or twice, the firm calloused fingers on his shoulders could almost be Harry's, or Kyle's, or even, as sleep crept in, Jess's soft hands, keeping him safe.

* * *

The next day Sam woke, sore but alive, and aching for a cigarette. Fixing a bag over the fire alarm, he lit up and gingerly withdrew his father's letter from his rucksack.

Frowning, he re-read the words again. Words of a soldier, of a man he now suspected to be a hunter.

_'Sam,_

_I'm sorry we left you. We both miss you more than I can say. But I think this is best. You're safe. You've escaped this life before you even had to begin it. I think Mary would have wanted that. Dean is too old, he's seen too much. But you have a chance._

_I'm sorry kiddo, it'll be a long time before you understand this. I'm sorry I can't say more. But I'm thinking of you here. Of your mother._

_I'll always love you Sammy. Always._

_Daddy.'_

A wry chuckle escaped him, where once he'd cried himself to sleep for months. If only John Winchester had known how far down the rabbit hole his son would fall regardless…Still. He'd tried to save his son from this. And looking back on the past few years of his life, Sam could feel little else but a deep sense of affection and gratitude toward the man who'd been brave enough to try and change his stars.

He read it one more time, eyes tracing the shape of the letters rather than really reading them – he'd learnt it by heart when he was five years old. And then he came to a decision.

He'd never chosen to go after the Winchesters, who'd left him in a motel room in a ring of salt and herbs. He'd missed his brother, or at least the vague, childish memory he had of him: that much was true. But Sam had never actively tried to find his biological family. After the terror of the Hadley's, and Harry's comfort, it'd never seemed to be the right moment.

And though his stomach was flipping somersaults, and his mind conjuring every face he'd lost, Sam took a moment to swear it, in the silence of his motel room.

"I'll find them." An imaginary weight settled on his shoulders, but something lighter, too. After months of pain and futility, finally he had an aim again, something to achieve.

It was then that Dean knocked on the door. Holding himself stiffly, Sam stumbled over and slipped the latch, checking his shotgun was on the table beneath the drawn curtains before letting the light in.

Dean pulled on a forced smile. "Breakfast!"

Sam squinted, cigarette drooping between his lips before he reached up to catch it. "What's got you so happy?"

The elder man shrugged. "I don't know. I like this day. Last day of a case. It's always a bit like a holiday."

"You're staying here for another day?"

Another shrug. "You know. Loose ends. Also, ah," Dean rubbed the back of his neck, glancing to the side, and Sam felt his lips quirk involuntarily. This guy was a real character, and he felt somehow like he had a headstart on all his quirks. Sam could read him like a book.

"Well, you know. Bobby mentioned it might be kinda inappropriate to leave you here. Wounded and all."

Sam raised one eyebrow, straightening to his full height, several inches above this interloper. "You're babysitting me?"

Dean held up his hands quickly. "Woah, no, not like that. I'd have stayed here anyway. It's just….friendly consideration." After a moment of Sam's suspicious glaring and Dean's fake smile, he shook the bag again, which rustled obligingly, releasing a sweet ribbon of steam. "Breakfast?"

* * *

It took a little more convincing, but eventually they spent the day together. And Sam had to admit, he liked it. He loved Dean's car, and was more happy than he thought he could be that the guy had discovered the Chevy where he'd left her. And the man himself wasn't so bad either – a little childish, very outdated (especially in his taste in music), but an oddly pleasing mix of funny and sincere, easygoing and ready for a fight. He was the kind of person with whom Sam was more than happy to share a beer, and he was surprised to find he had to hide a grin when Dean asked, surprised at how pleased he felt about making a good impression.

In the bar in which they were sitting, Dean raised a toast.

"To….whatever the hell it is you do next, you spineless thief."

Sam laughed. Having talked it over with Dean, he'd realised the man didn't resent him at all: apparently, family was pretty damn important to him too. So he drank to that with a smile, and turned the implied question on its head.

"How about you? Where are you heading?"

Dean shrugged, and just for a second, Sam thought he saw sadness flicker across his face. "Not sure. Wherever the wind takes me I guess. I once knew this yoga instructor…"

Laughing again, Sam shook his head. "Dude, it _is_ ok to show some respect for women. You know, like, once a month at least." He was joking, but he couldn't help being a little incredulous. Dean seemed well functioning enough. But then there was the fact that anything female seemed to rewire his brain. Another shrug.

"Well, it was just me and my Dad growing up, and we were hunting from the start so…"

"Wait, he took you hunting as a kid?" Sam was frowning, but he leaned back when Dean scowled.

"So? Means I'm alive today doesn't it?"

Deciding not to comment on that (he knew at least two therapists who'd take Dean's case to pieces) Sam took a swig of his beer. "Fair enough. Where is he now?"

The expression Dean gave him was all he needed, and Sam felt his own face fall in sympathy. He couldn't explain it, but he really liked the guy. Maybe it was something about him being so easy to read. Or the freckles that reminded him of the one scrap of memory left of his brother. Or the name, for that matter…

"Look man, I'm sorry."

Dean downed his beer and held up his hand. "No man, no chick flick moments."

Sam laughed, but he wondered how long Dean had been saying that, and if maybe he needed to learn a different tune.

"How about you?"

"What?"

Dean ordered a shot, then leant back in his chair, meeting Sam's gaze steadily and gesturing lazily to his own body. "Specs, tattoo. What happened since we last met?"

Uncomfortable, Sam stared down his beer before ordering himself a shot of whisky, nervously fidgeting with his glasses. "I went to Iraq. Hit a landmine. Survived." He laughed without humour. "Damaged my eyesight. I….was taking this drug. Hadn't realised how dependent I'd get. This." His fingers brushed lightly over his forearm. "Was to remind myself not to let my pride, or myself, get in the way of my duty to others."

At first he couldn't meet Dean's gaze, worried the other hunter would judge him. When their drinks arrived, both downed them and ordered another. When their second drinks came, Dean raised his glass in the air.

"Everyone makes mistakes kid. And not everyone learns from them, so…"

Sam smiled, embarrassed at his own bashfulness as he touched his glass to Dean's. "I'll drink to that."


	10. Chapter 10

A few hours later, both of them were laughing raucously, trading hunting stories like nobody's business. By this point, Dean had established that Sam was a 'total geek', and Sam had decided that for a guy whose main topics of conversation usually led to violence or porn, Dean seemed to have his heart in the right place. All in all, they were feeling pretty close, especially in the warm atmosphere of the bar, with alcohol running lazily through their veins.

So when a break in conversation fell, Sam found his usual inhibitions fading away. "Made a vow to myself this morning."

Dean giggled. "Nerd. You sound like one of those fantasy gamers."

Sam stuck his tongue out, smiling back (he'd always been a happy drunk). "Takes one to know one…"For a moment his line of thought faded away, and then it was back. "No this is serious. I decided to find them."

"Find who?"

"Dean and John Winchester. My brother and father. If they're alive. See, when I was-"

"Four years old you were discovered in a motel room in Evansville, Indiana. You were asleep in a ring of salt and on a pentagram. The police took you into protective custody, and then you went into care. You never saw them again." Dean was white as a sheet, his voice rough and soft, and suddenly he seemed far more sober than Sam had thought he was.

Squinting, because he was definitely drunk, Sam frowned at Dean. "How'd you know that?"

But Dean's hands were on his shoulders suddenly, too tight, too close, and Sam was twelve years old again and Gene Hadley was coming for him….He wasn't really sure what happened next. He was pretty sure he punched Dean, and then he was stumbling out of the bar, into the cool night air.

Dean ran out after him. "Sammy!" Sam whirled, trying hard to focus, and Dean held up his hands as if he was calming a wild animal.

"Woah, calm down kiddo. It's alright, I'm sorry if I spooked you."

Sam shrugged, shaking his head and pushing his palm into his eyes. "S'not your fault. What were you saying?"

Dean came close again, not as close as before, but close enough that Sam could feel the warmth of him, see how level headed he was (and Christ, that was impressive, how much did this guy normally drink?)

"Sam, I'm your brother."

A beat of silence passed, and then Sam shook his head, frowning. "No you're not."

His words were slurring and Dean looked impatient as he reached into his jacket, dragging out his wallet. "Look at this picture Sam! Look at it!"

By now the warm fuzzy edges of drink were creeping back from Sam's mind, and he found his vision coming into focus as he was presented with the four year old version of himself, next to a small kid with freckles and a larger, grizzled looking military man in a leather jacket. Memories of warmth and sunshine, freckles and _"Dean, look after your brother_" in a voice he barely remembered came swimming into his mind.

Sam bit his lip, feeling suddenly very small. He looked from the photo to this Dean, stranger Dean, _his brother_ Dean's desperate face.

"You're my brother?"

Dean nodded, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I found you Sammy. I finally found you."

He'd never be sure who initiated it, but after a second, both of them were in each other's arms, holding on for dear life. Sam shut his eyes, and just for a second, he could imagine everything was going to be ok. And then Dean was pulling back and shaking his head with a twitch of his nose.

Sam stared at him, unable to stop his own tears from coming as he stared at Dean, taking him in in a whole new light. _He had a brother. _ (He wasn't alone).

Laughing, Dean shook his head. "You've still got the same damn puppy eyes."

"You're smile hasn't changed much." Sam snorted. "Or those cute little freckles." He'd meant it as a tease, but Dean looked like he'd been punched in the gut.

"You remember that? Me?"

Rubbing a hand over the back for his neck, Sam shrugged. "Well sure, bits and pieces at least."

Half a smile pulled itself onto Dean's mouth, and he ran his hands over his face. "I….well you know, I was 9 when we lost you. I always remembered you. But I was always worried that if I found you, you wouldn't…you know, you just wouldn't want…"

"What, a brother? You?"

Dean shrugged helplessly and Sam punched him lightly on the arm, smiling. "Geez, you really are an idiot, aren't you?"

"And you're still drunk."

Sam giggled, taking out a cigarette and lighting up. "Maaaybe. And I suggest." He took a long, slow drag, feeling it calm the shaking nerves he'd barely noticed under the warm blanket of drink still settled on his bones. "Once I've finished this, that we head back inside and celebrate."

"Oh no." Dean was smiling, but he shook his head. "I think that's enough for you tonight."

Scowling, Sam pinched his cigarette and deliberately blew a puff of smoke into Dean's face, wanting to laugh at the way the guy childishly screwed his eyes shut. "Come on man. You can't be taking care of me yet. Big brother duties don't start till morning, deal?"

"Uh-uh." There was a pause, and Dean frowned, though he was fighting back a grin. "No damn puppy eyes yet Sammy. Let me pay, and we're getting you back to your room."


	11. Chapter 11

It didn't take much persuasion, Sam was already malleable enough thanks to the whisky. Dean paid and pulled the guy's long arm over his shoulders, unreasonably annoyed that on the discovery of his long lost baby brother, it turned out the baby was about three inches taller than him.

Sam giggled and shuffled along, and Dean couldn't help a small, affectionate smile (what? No one was watching.)

Relief coursed through him in crashing waves as he climbed up to the second floor balcony, just outside Sam's room, propping him against the wall while he fumbled with the key.

So he didn't see the spirit of the murdered family's third and eldest child. Didn't hear her either. All he heard was Sam's surprised, frightened shout of "Dean!"

And then his baby brother, the one he'd been searching for for almost thirty years, tumbled over the balcony.

Dean remembered shooting the spirit. And then he was stumbling down the stairs to where Sam's body lay, mind jerking in and out of the present.

* * *

_"But Sammy got taken! What if it was monsters?"_

_John frowned at Dean, cuffing him lightly over the head. "We've talked about this trooper. I'd know if it was monsters. Sammy is safe."_

_"But we can't just leave him!" Dean could feel tears brimming and overflowing down his cheeks, and even as a nine year old he flushed in embarrassment at the show of weakness. "We can't!" All of their bags were packed, and John was standing by the door._

_Dean stayed standing where he was. John glared._

_"I am trying to keep your brother safe. You understand that?"_

_"But how do we know he's safe if we're not there?"_

* * *

Dean's hands were clammy, and he was tripping down the steps two at a time, (why were there so many damn steps?)

The spirit came again, and he wasted no time in sending three rounds of rock salt into her, caring very little if any civilians heard and came running.

* * *

_10 year old Dean was on the phone. He'd managed to find Sam's care home by himself, after searching his Dad's bags and going through the phonebook. There was a nice lady on the other end of the phone, but she wasn't his baby brother and John was going to be home soon, and he'd be so angry. Dean kept repeating himself, hoping desperately she'd get the message. He just wanted to hear Sammy, just wanted to make sure he was ok._

_John got back and the phone went dead. Dean's ears felt hollow. He could barely remember what Sam's voice sounded like. It felt like losing him all over again._

* * *

Dean was shouting now. Someone else was shouting, too, in the distance. Probably heard the noise. He really couldn't care less.

Jumping onto the asphalt, Dean sprinted to where Sam had landed, trying not to see the blood.

* * *

_Dean was 16 years old. He had a black eye and a split lip. He and his Dad had been fighting again. About Sammy. With a muted groan, Dean twisted his head to stare at the file he'd compiled. It was thick, the size of a family photo album. Dean grimaced. As if he had a family these days. He thought about John's words, ringing round and round his head._

_"You think he'd want to face this horror? You think Mary would want that? Leave him be Dean! He is not a part of our lives anymore. Hell, he probably doesn't remember you!"_

_Dean thought about that. The horror of his life. The gun under his pillow. All the people they failed to save. Living with John Winchester._

_And he thought about Sammy, who'd be eleven this year. (And Dean never forgot. Because every year on his birthday, he bought a cupcake, or a muffin, or a breadroll if things got really desperate. And he sang 'happy birthday' under his breath to the little brother who wasn't there, just like he used to.)_

_He decided to stop looking for Sam. At least for now. At least he'd be safe._

_(And miles away Sam cowered in his bedroom away from the looming figure of Gene Hadley, holding a baseball bat.)_

* * *

Dean was cradling Sam's body in his arms, desperately asking him to wake up, tears streaming down his face.

"Come on Sammy. Come on. Come back. Don't you dare leave me again! Not now. Come on, big brother duties have to resume now kid. You said so! How can I be a big brother if-" Dean choked, warm, sticky blood running over his fingers, matting Sam's long hair. His whole world was crumbling.

* * *

"I just don't get it."

If she weren't a demon, Dean would have found the woman in the slinky black dress pretty sexy. But it wasn't exactly high on his list of priorities. Instead he held his ground, in the middle of the crossroad.

"I mean: you barely know this kid. He might not like you. He might not love you. He'll never be the brother you knew. Not now…" She was smiling as she spoke, and Dean fingers twitched to his gun. She caught the movement and laughed, raising her hands.

"What? Truth hurts Dean. I can't change that."

He forced himself to take a deep breath. "You can change this. Ten years. Do we have a deal?"

Giving him a pout, she shrugged. "Nope, price is too low. I mean: you _really _want his soul." She paused, with an affected sigh and a roll of her eyes. "Lucifer knows why."

"He's my _brother._ Five years."

She giggled. "No deal, and honey, he hasn't been your brother since he was four years old. He's a stranger to you."

"But he doesn't have to be." Dean drew in a deep breath through his nose. Damn it, he was not going to cry in front of a demon. "We can be brothers again. Just bring him back."

The demon tutted. "You have a lot of faith in the guy who stole your car and opened the gates of hell. Between you and me, it's a little naive." She tilted her head to the side. "Or suicidal. I'm going to say a bit of both."

"He is my brother, you stinking bitch. Three years, do we have a deal?" Dean's knuckles were white now, and his patience was thinning. Sam's body was resting, carefully wrapped in a blanket, on the back seat of the Impala. It would be getting cold.

"One year, or no deal."

Dean felt his face fall. He'd wanted to get to know this kid. Teach him the ropes. Learn where he'd been. (Be brothers again. Have a family.) Would one year be enough?

"Guess I don't have much choice."

The demon smiled widely. "Of course you do. Everyone has a choice."

"Not from where I'm standing."

He kissed her.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam woke up the next day, and was mostly surprised. For one thing, he didn't have a hangover. For another, Dean (his brother…?) was sitting at a table in his motel room, cleaning a gun.

"Morning sunshine." The guy pulled on a grin, and Sam saw right through it. If they were brothers, he guessed that'd explain it. The way he seemed to see through every one of this guy's mannerisms, to all the pain beneath.

In a brief moment of affection, Sam found himself wanting to take that pain away. To make him better. Be the brother he hadn't been.

"You ok? You don't look so good."

Dean snorted, but again, it seemed a little forced. "Yeah, you should've seen yourself last night."

Sam pressed a palm to his forehead. "No hangover. Can barely remember anything though…?" He let his voice pull up at the end, fishing for answers to the strange, cold gaps of darkness in his memory.

"That a fact?" Dean looked speculative. "Well, first of all, you got into drag and tried to pick up a hooker named George…"

A pillow hit him in the face before he could finish the sentence, and Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's shit eating grin.

"Real mature."

"Coming from the guy who has….a slinky in his backpack?" Sam had spotted the bright colours the night before, and now he basked in his triumph as he withdrew the plastic toy.

"That's my stuff! And it…it's related to a case." Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Uh huh. What, poltergeist in Toys 'R' Us?"

Dean flushed. "Yeah, something like that."

Sam shook his head. "Whatever man. I'm gonna go get a shower, and then…" He paused. He honestly hadn't thought that far ahead. Nervously, he glanced at Dean, who was sitting in the light of the window, grinning.

It was so much like Sam's earliest memory: his brother smiling, freckles and light, it physically hurt. And it gave him the courage to say what he did next.

"Could I maybe hitch a ride with you?" Sam shrugged, running a hand through the back of his hair, and fighting away the butterflies that still tried to eat through his stomach when he went to trust people. "Just…seems like we have a lot of catching up to do."

Dean's smile was blinding, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. And Sam found himself smiling back, so widely his cheeks hurt. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled like this. Chuckling, he raised an eyebrow. "So that a yes?"

"I guess it is."

* * *

In the car, which Dean had explained was their Dad's, Sam had never felt more at home. The smell of leather was bringing up new memories. Tickle fights with Dean in the back seat. His Dad blaring rock and the two of them singing along while Sam giggled in the back seat.

Sun shone in through the windows, the boot was armed to the teeth. And Sam wasn't alone. He glanced at Dean, fingers tapping to ACDC, and found himself smiling again, almost giddily.

He had a family.

And maybe, just maybe, this time he'd get to keep it.

(And in Dean's head, he crossed off the first day. 364 to go.)


End file.
